Departures and arrivals: scenes from the airport

by Maria Titizian

Published: Saturday September 29, 2007 in Living in Armenia

Zvartnots airport, Yerevan.

When I was a child I used to love going to the airport. Yes, I loved it so much that I usually made myself sick. The airport for me was the gateway to exotic destinations waiting to be discovered. I got the travel bug from an early age, and even now the idea of seeing new places and experiencing different cultures continues to be alluring.

Going to the airport meant meeting relatives I had only seen in faded black and white photographs. As civil war raged in Lebanon different family members would make the harrowing journey across the ocean to find refuge in the comfort of Canada. First my father's sister and her family, then my maternal uncle, and as the list kept getting longer, the family kept getting bigger until all of my parents' siblings eventually made their way to us. From a lonely and solitary existence, all of a sudden my life was enriched with new cousins who became playmates, co-conspirators and lifelong companions.

Although most of my childhood memories are wrapped up with trips we made to the airport, these days going to the airport in Yerevan is not something I like to do. I avoid it as much as possible. If absolutely necessary I go to greet but rarely do I go to say goodbye. I have good cause.

When we were moving to Armenia, I had asked, requested and then finally pleaded with my family that we be allowed to go to the airport without them. I couldn't bear the thought of saying goodbye to my parents and sisters in the sterile environment of an airport terminal. Mostly, I couldn't bear the thought of my children having to say goodbye to everything which was so familiar to them. I wanted us to say our goodbyes in our own way and on our own terms. But of course no one ever listens to me. If I divulge the number of people who came to the airport to see us off, well, most of you wouldn't believe it. To make a very long story short, our final hours in Toronto were probably the most absurdly comedic and painful experience of my life. I try not to remember it, but alas memories have a way of creeping into your daily thoughts and all those emotions come flooding back.

Going to the airport here in Yerevan therefore isn't a gateway to exotic destinations waiting to be discovered - it's a gateway to memories of that final day in Toronto so many years ago.

When the time came for us to board the plane, the dreaded task of saying our final goodbyes had also arrived. I started at one end, and my husband at the other end of our assembled family and friends. One by one we said our tearful goodbyes, and then we took our children's hands and the four of us walked away - whistling and clapping could be heard long after we had gone through security. Bystanders, travelers, and airport personnel were staring at this typically Armenian spectacle in stunned silence. In retrospect most of these people probably thought we were going to a place where another airplane would never land again, ever. We were the last people to board the plane, and as we were making our way to our seats, I could feel people staring at us wondering which Godforsaken country we were traveling to - after the scene we generated, I can't say that I blamed them for their curiosity.

***

A few days ago my husband and I went to the airport to pick up my godparents who were coming to Yerevan for a visit. I wasn't planning on going, but at the last minute decided to go. What harm could it do after all?

While we were waiting I was standing around watching all the people there to greet family and friends. Old people, young people, little starry eyed children, some laughing, some talking quietly - they all shared one thing in common - a sense of anticipation. And then the first travelers started walking through the sliding doors with their suitcases in tow.

What caught my attention was a group of about 20 or more people, huddled around each other with large bouquets in their hands. This tiny civilization was so wrought with anticipation that it seemed as though they were frozen to their spots and couldn't move. Then the sliding doors opened and a young woman came out and walked toward them. For a few seconds no one moved, and then they softly folded her into their aching arms. They were all crying, from joy, sadness, from garod. I'm not sure what it was that made that scene so poignant. There was a quietness in the way they greeted her, a dignity which I had never seen before. As I watched their reunion, I realized that I was crying with them. For I know what garod means.

My own excitement at picking up a loved one at the airport is always marred by the reality that I will have to say goodbye to them yet again. For the first time in my life, I am alone, far away from my sisters and their beautiful children, from my parents and a very large, boisterous extended family. I was jealous of the family at the airport.

I have often heard the saying hayou jagadakir - Armenian destiny. I thought I knew what that meant, but it was only after I had left my family behind that I really understood. We are constantly going and coming, moving, unstable, uneasy, never satisfied, always looking for somewhere better, easier, more challenging. Other times we were forced to move because we were caught in somebody else's war. Will we ever find what we're looking for? What exactly are we looking for?

A local woman, when she found out that we had moved to Armenia permanently, shook her head and said, "Meronk gnum en, duk galis ek" (Ours are leaving, you are coming). She couldn't make any more sense of it than I can now. Why are some people so ready to leave their country and why are others so ready to come? We're either running away from something or running toward something.

I'd like to think that we are all running to try and catch a dream.